


Once Upon A Time Warp

by Moonlark



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Flower and the dragons just breaking so many traditions, M/M, Sharpie and Burs try to start a succession war, and treaties, angel!Sharpie (kind of), because they think it'll be funny, dragon!Nealer, dragon!Paulie, elf!Burs, griffin!Beau, griffin!Olli, meanwhile Tanger's just like, prince!Flower, raising two baby griffins over here, squire!Tanger, this is just me being crazy and celebrating the end of the 'stress days'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of a prince, two dragons, a squire, two griffins, an elf, and an angel. It is also a story of love, revenge, tradition, stereotypes, and politics—what delightful topics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Spaceballs, because I, like Lord Helmet, am surrounded by assholes.
> 
> (Not you guys. You're not the assholes.)

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far to the west of the setting sun, there lived a prince named Marc. He was handsome in a way that wasn’t quite ‘tall and dark’, but was much closer to that than it was to ‘broad and light’. He was fairly slim, but well muscled, with a mischievous smile and warm brown eyes that could make you forget about all the other boys. He loved archery, and could often be found in the castle range, shooting perfect bulls-eyes and splitting his own arrows down the middle. He practiced religiously, and his parents said that if he put the same effort into his studies that he did into his shooting, then he would be the most learned boy in the kingdom. However, they did agree that the archery had its practical uses—it would help greatly when it was Marc’s turn for the dragon.

Franoul, the kingdom that he lived in, had a long and complicated history, including treaties and betrayals and rebellions. Perhaps the most interesting part, though, was the dragon war about a thousand years earlier and the agreement that ended it. Neither humans nor dragons could gain an upper hand, so they eventually hammered out a treaty without there being an official winner and loser. It was agreed that for each firstborn of the royal family, one dragon would be sent for the humans to fight. The firstborn would be locked in a tower guarded by that dragon, and whoever slew the dragon had the firstborn’s hand in marriage. In return, the humans would not kill, hunt, or displace any other dragons, so long as the dragons weren’t slaughtering important humans.

There were all sorts of legends about the tower and the battles that had happened there, tales of blood and gore and love and steel slicing through scales. Everyone knew the tale of King Stanley, the first king, who slew two dragons, freed both his wife and his son, and became king twice over. Then there was Wayne, the lord from across the sea who had slain Vralägh Skullcracker, the greatest and most vicious dragon to be remembered. Mario, the brave prince, had fought his way out of the tower on his own, slaying the dragon before any knight even had the chance to try. A generation later, Jarda, the Jagr farm girl, had defeated the dragon with only a rusty pitchfork, when knights had tried and died with better tools for almost a year. And only fifty years back, there was the tale of Sidney and Evgeni, who had a forbidden love, and who worked together—Sidney from the inside and Evgeni on the out—to defeat the savage Blödborne and take the kingdom in their hands.

Contrary to most firstborns, though, Marc was not looking forward to the tower. He wasn’t particularly keen on being locked up with a bloodthirsty beast and forced to either fight his way out or wait to be rescued. He enjoyed his freedom, both from physical limits and from responsibility. He wanted to see the world, to explore, to scale the summits of the Frostneedle Mountains and sail across the Jade Ocean, to build snow huts on the Great Northern Plain and swelter with a caravan of camels in the Morinile Desert. Yet he knew that since he was firstborn, he must stay home, and he must learn, and he must go to the tower… and so much of his free time was spent riding alone in the Holy Wood outside the castle, or hunting in Darkinting Forest to the west, enjoying what freedom he had while it lasted.

One day, on one of the hunting trips into Darkinting, Marc and his guards were attacked by a group of bandits. His horse was killed in the fighting, and he fled on foot through the forest. Grasping branches reached down to tear his clothes and scratch his skin, but he struggled on, trying and failing to nock an arrow while running.

Suddenly, the ground tilted beneath his feet and he fell, rolling into a ball like he’d been taught in training. The arrows in his quiver snapped as he collided violently with a tree stump, and a tilted shelf boulder launched him briefly into the air. When he finally came to a stop at the bottom, he ached all over, and even though he tried to force himself to his feet, his legs were shaking too much to work properly. Turning around to the inevitable, he dragged his belt knife out and faced his pursuers, determined to at least fight like a man and a prince should, not run like a coward—but the bandits screamed and took flight, staring at him as if he was a monster. Shocked and nervous, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Marc whirled to see what it was… and his jaw dropped open so far it nearly hit the ground.

There, behind him, was a dragon.

Its eyes were fixated on the fleeing bandits, but when he moved, the ethereal stare switched to him instead. Marc swallowed; his entire being was rooted to the ground, and dimly, on the edge of his consciousness, he felt the knife drop from his hand. Marc had never seen a dragon in person before—very few people had—but he knew that it must be one, even though it looked nothing like the vicious monsters portrayed on the tapestries back home. Sure, it had the wings and the tail and the scales and claws and teeth, key features of dragondom, but unlike the woven dragons he knew, this one was… beautiful.

Marc gulped as that thought raced through his brain. _Everyone_ knew that dragons were ugly! But… this one wasn’t. Sunlight glinted off the glistening gold scales, and the white horns and teeth were polished and whole, not the chipped, cavity-ridden affairs shown in the weavings. The creature held its head high, proud and elegant, and there were no holes in the wing membranes, no gnarled and bloodstained claws. It was lithe, supple and slim, with no sign of a bulging belly or beefy muscles, and it contained a certain fluid grace that made it seem more like the leopards in the Qhaari caliph’s zoo.

The dragon’s eyes had still not left Marc, but now he quirked one brow ridge and commented, in perfectly fluent Common, “You’re staring.”

“Y-you can speak?!” Marc stuttered out, incredulous.

The dragon snorted. “Of course. Where would I be if I couldn’t?” Marc began to back away slowly. The dragon noticed, and quickly said, “No, no, don’t go. Please. You’re the first intelligent conversationalist I’ve met in days.”

“What do you mean, intelligent conversationalist?” Marc asked warily.

“You can talk. You can conjugate verbs. You can form complete sentences. You have a solid grasp on the laws of this language. You seem to have the ability to ponder complex problems. Altogether, much better than a chipmunk.”

There wasn’t really anything Marc could say to that.

“Actually,” and here the dragon tilted his head and rustled his wings, “do you know anything about the treatment of fractured bones?”

Marc nodded. Of course he did. He had to, or else the number of guards he had to take when he was riding in Darkinting would at least double, and that would be very bad for the hunting.

“Um… would you mind taking a look at my right medial wing phalanx? I can’t do anything with it on my own.”

Marc grinned nervously. “I–I think I’ll pass on that one?” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Switching to Francen, his native language, he muttered, _“I’ve no desire to be eaten.”_

“I just saved your life from those bandits. Don’t you have any sense of gratitude?” The dragon’s voice was nice, Marc noticed, vowels soft and rounded in a distinct accent that seemed more like the speech patterns from across the sea. “I promise I won’t eat you. That’s just a myth, anyway—humans taste awful, or so I’ve heard.”

Well, he supposed he could do worse. Maybe if he looked at this dragon, he could get a better idea of strengths and weaknesses. That would help him when it was his time for the tower.

He met the dragon’s gaze and nodded. “Okay, I’ll look at your wing.”

“Great, thanks.” The relief in the dragon’s voice was palpable, and he shuffled sideways slightly to allow Marc to squeeze past the brambles to his side. “My name’s Paul, by the way.”

Marc nearly fell as he stumbled over his own feet. “But… What?! I thought dragons had names like ‘Bloodraider’ and ‘Deathfang’ and… and ‘Wingscourge’ and the like!…”

The dragon—Paul—stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Deathfang!” he scoffed incredulously. “Is that the type of name you up-walkers, you humans would give us?”

“Well, that’s the type of name all the dragons have in the old stories…”

Paul was shaking, and for a moment Marc was afraid he’d angered the dragon, until the huge, toothy jaws opened and a giggle escaped, and he realized that Paul was _laughing_. “Well, young…?”

“Marc.”

“Young prince Marc, the ‘old stories’ are often wrong. History is written by the winners, and nothing twists a tale like time.”

“How old are you?” Marc blurted out; the whole ‘Young Marc’ thing was annoying him a little.

“Still fairly young, not yet out of my second century.”

Once again, Marc found his jaw hitting the ground. “Second _century_?!”

“Yes. Dragons age centuries the way you no-claws age decades. If I were human I’d still be a teenager. Now can you get on with the wing thing?”

Marc nodded and focused his attention on Paul’s wing. The skin around the break was torn and bloodied, and shards of hollow bone poked through.

"How did this happen?" he asked.

"Griffins. They're vicious little bitches when you get too close to their nests."

Marc sighed. Everyone knew not to go near a griffin's chick; he had just lost so much respect for the dragon. He did his best to clean the injury, ignoring the choked-off whimper of pain Paul was trying to hold back. Soon, the wound was bandaged and splinted, and the dragon heaved a sigh of relief.

“Don’t try to fly on it for a couple weeks, okay?” Marc ordered as he cleaned up the leftover fabric.

“But… I’ll starve. It's not like a deer's just going to come along and leap into my mouth.”

Marc smiled. “Leave that to me. I’m the prince; I have resources.”

With that, he set back out for the castle, intending to show up before his parents got too worried. His mind was full of questions, queries for his parents. He wanted to hear the tales they had of their dragon one more time. He wanted to compare those stories to what he’d just learned.

He wanted to know why the kingdom had lied to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The geography of this world is getting out of control.

James circled aimlessly, round and round, unable to sleep. The straw in his corner of the cave had long since been crushed down to a thin mat, creased and folded, but he didn't care. He was too busy worrying.

"Oh, please just go to sleep," his sister Becky muttered. "You're keeping everyone up."

He swung around to look at her, and then the rest of his family, who were all staring at him sleepily. "He'll come back soon, I'm sure," his mother rumbled. "You know it takes time to fly to Corinat. He probably just encountered some weather." 

James nodded, but it did nothing to soothe the dark worry eating at his lungs. "But he should've been back at with the Clayn by now."

"And worrying won't do anything to help that. Now either settle down or go outside; you're keeping the whole Kyn awake."

"Okay," he sighed, before making his way out onto the ledge. Perhaps some fresh air would do him good.

It was a warm and cloudless spring night, unusual for that part of the world. He curled his tail around his paws and let the moonlight wash over his silver scales. Down on the valley floor, the stars glinted in the small reflecting pool, pinpoints of warmth in a void of empty, frigid space. A breeze swept through the northern pass, making the eerie but comforting whistling sound that the dragons referred to as the 'mountain song'.

Normally, the mountain song took the form of a strange melody, otherworldly but uplifting, a gentle lullaby swirling through the valley. That night, though, the wind was blowing from the northeast (as it rarely did), causing the melody to become a haunting tune that sent James's scales a-shiver and made him tuck his tail more tightly around himself.

He stared up at the cold, indifferent moon and prayed for Paulie to come home.

 

*******

 

On the far side of the Jade Ocean, in the kingdom of Leinyon, the bells for dawn prayer were ringing in Tsawni's Temple. The soft peals rang out over the landscape, calling worshipers to awaken and enter the temple grounds. It was the first stirring of life in a soft world.

In the training yards of Lien Castle, Kristopher was already awake, spinning a wooden staff in his hands and facing off against Lord Jussi, the training master. The clack of wood on wood and the occasional thump as staves made contact with flesh rang through the yard, and the spectators lined up along the fence cheered the two on. 

Eventually, a well-placed blow sent Kris stumbling, and he ended upon the hard-packed earth with Lord Jussi's staff pressed softly against his throat. He yielded, and the training master helped him up with a smile and a quick bit of advice. The spectators slowly dissipated, and Kris went to put away his gear and clean up.

Just as he was finishing up, Borts came running in, gasping out that Sir Pascal wanted him. Kris thanked the page (it was good to be polite—the boy would make a fine knight someday) and hurried up to the castle. 

His knight-master was at his writing desk, scribbling furiously with a ragged, well-used brown quill. "Get packing," he said, "we're going to Milline. Reports of a few rogue centigri and some bandits straying across the border, causing trouble, pillaging and killing, the like. We're being sent out, along with 2nd company Hounds and a couple groups of Lionesses."

"But surely the regular army's to deal with it?" Kris frowned. He knew they were about to leave the castle, almost done with their short break, but he thought they were going north. "I mean, aren't we needed on the border with Skartyn?"

"Regular army's not fast enough. These are bandits; they hit and run, and we're all that can move fast enough to catch them. So get packing, and tell 2nd company to get moving." He paused, and then smiled. "And don't call me Shirley."

"Yes sir," Kris nodded and opened the door again.

"Don't call me sir either! You know how I feel about formalities!" 

"Yes _sir_!"

Out in the hall, he caught one of the new pages, Jayson, staring at him in awe. 

"What?" he said.

"You… you just… how does…that's the Commander of the Hounds!"

"I was aware of that."

"How do you talk to him like that?!"

"It's easy. He loves to tease and prank, but he's a big softie. All bark, no bite, 'less you've really fucked up. But don't tell anyone that," he added as the page's eyes grew even rounder. "Now, can you run down to the Hound barracks and tell Captain Rask to get his men packing for a stay in the east?"

*******

Captain Tuukka Rask was engaged in a game of Jinns with Sergeants Lack, Crawford, and Price when the page ran in and told them it was time to pack. Sergeant Quick, who was watching, groaned. "Already? Thought I had at least another couple fucking days before I had to go back to that northern hellhole border war!"

"That can't be right," Tuukka remarked. "3rd company's barely been there two months. Haven't heard of major fighting or casualties…"

"It's not the border, Captain," the page blurted out, before slapping his sleeve across his mouth in such a comical fashion that Tuukka had to struggle not to laugh. "Er, the squire, Kris, he said it was a stay in the east…"

"Perfect!" Corey exclaimed. "The eastern mountain air is going to do wonders for my complexion!"

Tuukka could no longer hold in the laughter.

"What's going on?" Sergeant Luongo asked, sticking his head in, still sweat-soaked from a morning in the sun. "We heading out again?"

"Going east," answered Eddie. "… Hey, maybe I could stop in and see the family."

"Not on duty!" Carey answered immediately, trying to disguise the nervousness in his voice. "Remember what happened last time?"

"… Oh god," groaned Lu.

The page began to edge away slowly. "I'll just… go now," he muttered, and then fled.

Halfway back to the castle, Jayson stopped and mopped his brow. Apparently, what Brian had said about the Hounds was true: the officers were crazy, and it rubbed off on the men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this world, a Clayn is a group of non-related dragons that choose to live together. A Kyn is a blood family of dragons, often sharing a cave and existing within Clayns.
> 
> Also, Leinyon is strongly modeled after Tortall, because I love Tamora Pierce's books.
> 
> Centigris (pl. centigri): centauroid tiger-human creature.


End file.
